this ain't the heartbreak hotel
by saunatonttu
Summary: A relationship and its downs witnessed by Alfred F. Jones, an engineering major that doesn't care enough to pursue the real issues behind Arthur's insecurities and Francis' need for a real relationship. Nothing gets solved, in the end, but that is alright as well. FrUK, mentioned BelaLietPol.


**this ain't the heartbreak hotel**

 _(even tho I know it well)_

 _._

 _._

 _._

He wakes up to a splitting headache somewhere in the front of his skull, and the light that pours into his room does not help matters. Arthur must have opened the curtains again, that sun-loving old man. Alfred squints and tries to fall back asleep, but the cloud of hatred darkening his sleep-fuzzy mind refuses to unclench its hold. And so Alfred Jones wakes up to another day and realizes he slept through what seems like five alarms.

 _Fuck_ , is Alfred's first coherent thought of the day. It is not the first time this happens, certainly won't be the last either. His life just seems to have that effect on him — the tendency to fuck him up and force the nearly omnipresent grin off his face when he'd like it to stay — and it's so _tiring_ , can't a guy catch a break? _Fuck, why is he thinking such depressing thoughts. He's not Arthur._

He goes to eat the remaining pieces of pizza he got last night and drinks Coke straight from the bottle. Arthur never drinks carbonated drinks for whatever stuffy British reasons he has, which makes Alfred roll his eyes every time he sees Arthur with a cup of tea. Geesh, _be more American, would ya?_

He has been abusing Coke a lot lately. He can't remember when he has last drunk tap water. It's kinda gross, so he won't bother, and he's in a hurry anyway and he needs _caffeine_ to drive away the headache that was the result from not consuming any caffeine the day before. Alfred curses Francis for buying him decaf coffee.

He eats one piece of pizza, saves the rest of later, and then it's time for him to go.

…Alright, he might need to put on his jeans first.

.

.

He misses his first lecture by about forty-five minutes and sixty-five seconds, which means that it's pretty much over by the time he even gets to that part of campus. Goddammit. Okay. Kiku will let him borrow his notes, maybe. The Japanese descendant is nice enough to do that for Alfred; speak of the devil, Alfred nearly bumps into him as the other comes out from the classroom.

"Kiku! My dude!" Alfred cannot refrain from leaping on his friend, and he can't see any reason to do so in the first place, even though it does startle Kiku badly enough to elicit a soft shriek.

"A-alfred," Kiku stutters, which he only ever does when he's extremely embarrassed or badly startled. Quickly gathering himself, he adds against Alfred's shoulder, "Please stop doing this every time we come across each other."

"Never," Alfred proclaims, but pulls away regardless so that Kiku can take notice of the brilliant smile that graces Alfred's face. If Kiku notices the dark rings beneath his eyes, he says nothing. Alfred thinks he likes that part about Kiku the most on these occasions — no lectures, no _please take proper care of yourself, Alfred_ and most importantly, no sitting him down at the end of a table with a cup of tea shoved at him.

"But, uh," Alfred scratches at his cheek in what he hopes is an endearing manner. "Can I borrow your notes later?"

Kiku's smile is slight, the glint in his dark eyes knowing. "Of course, Alfred. Of course."

.

.

He majors in engineering, but he loves to pick random classes to make his days interesting and varying rather than dull and similar to one another. He has a few classes of history, varying from the awesome American one to world history, and the first time he mentioned about it to Arthur, he received an earful of _it's about damn time you learn something about the rest of the world._ Arthur might have added something about England, but by that time Alfred was already playing Xbox, so it didn't really register.

The second class is one of the history ones, and while the topic is pretty interesting — something about contemporary Russia? — the professor drones on and on and squeezes out the interesting out of the class. Alfred dozes off without a shame about fifteen minutes in.

.

.

Alfred skips out on the remaining classes, since none of them require frequent attendance and, well, his headache has somehow gotten _worse_ instead of _better_ , so it's time to get that fixed. He wonders if he can rope Arthur into skipping his English lectures too, but he entertains the thought only for mere seconds. Arthur is one of those people that dutifully attend every class every day at the expense of their mental and physical health. Sometimes at the cost of Alfred's, too, since he's the one Arthur frequently bitches at.

Alfred works hard enough, does _well_ enough; Arthur does too, but the Brit is a slave to his own perfectionism, sometimes subjects it on Alfred as well. More often than not. It's one of his less desirable qualities, one of those that make Alfred bristle in quiet resentment.

Alfred slips inside his favorite on-campus cafe, where he knows he will find Francis. Arthur's sort-of on-and-off boyfriend that does only evening classes works there under the pretense that it's only part-time and not something he would like to do for the rest of his life.

"Francis!" The cafe is blissfully empty today, only a few students sitting at the tables near the other end. Francis, who has been absentmindedly cleaning the counter, looks up and smiles quickly when he sees Alfred. It's one of those blink-and-you'll-miss-it snapshot smiles, warm and genuine before Francis' personality curls and takes over.

"Alfred, _mon ami_ ," comes the usual greeting, the French flying over Alfred's head just a bit as he laughs again. At least Francis doesn't do cheek kisses anymore; the first few times seeing Francis had been awkward as hell because of cheek-against-cheek touches and a blow of air into one ear.

"Do you have something good for today," Alfred asks, bouncing a bit on his feet. "I need _caffeine_."

"Nothing new here," Francis shrugs, curls of blond hair bouncing with the movement. "How about the usual? With lots of sugar?"

"That sounds good; thanks, Franny."

"Stop calling me that," Francis huffs, shaking his head with the knowledge that Alfred never would.

.

.

"How's Arthur?" Francis asks carefully after taking his well-deserved break from work, although the other worker seems a little upset with him. (A tall blond with wide shoulders and muscles to enter a bodybuilding contest with.) Francis' sea blue eyes stare at Alfred, but reveal nothing about the reason for the question. Alfred frowns, contemplating the implications of the question.

(Stop making him _think,_ goddammit, it is his lunch break!)

"He hasn't been around much," Alfred says, frowning harder at the realization. Arthur is usually always around, unless he's having mindless sex with Francis or arguing with the guys in the next room— "Did you guys have a fight or what?"

Francis bites at his lip, tears his gaze away from Alfred.

Ah. So they _did._

"Geesh, you two have a fight like every other day," Alfred grumbles and takes a loud slurp from his black, sugar-filled coffee. It's still a little bitter but it wakes him up, and the caffeine surges in his veins. When Francis doesn't answer, Alfred tilts his head, eyes blinking a few times in rapid hummingbird motions. "…Is it serious?"

"Mmhm," Francis waves a hand, the movement flippant and airy, but his face scrunches up with soft worry. "I think I may have underestimated the heights of his insecurities."

"Dude," Alfred stares, now guarded and a little protective. "What did you say to him?"

Francis looks at him, blue eyes dark like the depths of the Mariana Trench. "I told him I loved him."

.

.

Alfred leaves the cafe with his head spinning and another plastic cup of coffee between his hands. His head hurts, now for a reason vastly different from the lack of caffeine.

Not many people understand that he does care for Arthur in the most profound of ways. Sometimes Arthur doesn't get it, either, or perhaps he doesn't remember how Alfred holds him upright when Arthur stumbles in, drunk and lost in many ways, or how he knows just what brand of tea Arthur likes and buys it for him time after time if he sees that the tea bags gone. Alfred loves him like a kid loves the sun on the sky.

The coffee tastes more bitter on his tongue now, and Alfred almost tosses it away as he sends a lonesome text message.

 _[13.12] where are you, artie?_

He shoves the phone into his jeans' pocket, and doesn't expect an answer.

.

.

He should spend the afternoon looking for his missing roommate slash brother figure, but instead he ends up at Natalia's. Her dorm room is small, meant for one, but she always ends up housing someone because she's one of those people that don't give a shit about someone if people don't give a shit about her, and that works for quite a few students more often than not.

Masochists? Sadists? Somewhere in between? Alfred can't label those kinds of people, but then again, he used to be one of them.

.

.

She looks at him with something like disgust in her eyes, and Alfred smiles.

"Alfred." He likes the way her lips form his name, the way her accent makes it sound just a little foreign, like he's hearing it for the first time. "What are you doing here?"

She does not look uneasy. It's impossible to look like it when she's never comfortable and always hiding in the broken shells of a person that make up a twenty-year-old girl that has only learned English after moving to the States with her fingers clutched around her brother's shirt. It's fascinating in a way that any excavation is: the damage has been done, but beauty remains there under the dirt of soil.

Alfred grins. She frowns. "Come on in, then."

Natalia's room is dark, and one of Alfred's former theories about her was a semi-serious consideration on her being a vampire. Later on, he realizes that no, Natalia was not from Romania, but Belarus. _Eh, close enough_.

"Tea?" Natalia asks. Alfred shakes his head.

"…Turkey sandwich?" At that, Alfred throws a fist up with enthusiasm. Natalia looks at him like he's dirt under her boots, but she goes to get the sandwiches she has made for herself, and gives one of them to Alfred.

Her hands aren't soft, but her touch is gentler than a snowflake.

.

.

"He's afraid," Natalia drawls when Alfred tells her about Arthur — and Francis, because those two come in set, even when they pretend not to — and her fingers tap against the fabric of her long dress. "He's afraid of love."

Alfred hums and takes a huge bite of the sandwich. Yummy. "Artie's never been good with emotions."

He doesn't confirm or deny Natalia's statement. He munches on the piece of the sandwich, flash memories of Friday nights fast-forwarded through his mind until they reach the small hours of Saturday mornings when he stumbles back into their shared dorm room, where Arthur is reading a novel, half-nodding half-trying, and the next moment Arthur's hands are around him, secure like the railings on stairs or— or— the safety belts in cars—

"He should be," Natalia says quietly, and it startles Alfred, who stares at her with wide eyes and a piece of turkey stuck in his throat. "Afraid, I mean," she clarifies as she moves, pulls her legs up to her side on the armchair, "since it's so easy to murder."

"Huh?"

"Putting trust in someone," Natalia says vaguely, long eyelashes covering purple irises, "is what makes it the most delicate tragedy, I think."

"Uh." Alfred can't say he understands Arthur's emotional issues — though he knows of them, and sometimes that feels like enough — but Natalia's eyes say that she does, and it makes Alfred's chest tighten, heart squeezing into itself for reasons he does not quite compete.

Natalia makes him feel small in ways that Arthur never manages to.

Natalia's eyelids flutter, heavy and soft. "You can't have your heart bleed out on you, you know. No one lives without a heart."

.

.

Alfred doesn't like to talk about Arthur with Natalia — or anyone, for that matter, because he feels like he's gonna say something regrettable, let something slip that shouldn't be. When you have a walking train wreck as a friend, no matter how "well-dressed" or "polite" they are, you learn to keep them to yourself like a private show. Sometimes Alfred wonders if he's cruel, thinking about Arthur like that.

Still, the talk with Natalia is enlightening. Not in the sense that he has reached the nirvana in understanding Artie, because gods know he'll never get there and he's busy with impulsive living and finding the next fast-food place, but in the sense that he can begin to guess which nerves Francis has gotten on this time.

Alfred leaves her room with an itch in his shin and a worry in his head.

.

.

What he knows and Natalia doesn't are the ways Arthur deals with the complication that is _love._ If it can be called that.

.

.

Alfred goes back to his and Arthur's dorm room, half-expecting to see Arthur there nursing a half-empty glass of Scottish whiskey that he seems to gravitate to whenever shit hits the fan. He isn't there, drunk or not, and Alfred bites at his lower lip. Shit. How many days has it been? Should he call the cops? Arthur never pulls these stunts; it's only Alfred that ever does this, and Arthur is there to yell at him whenever he comes back disheveled and hungover, anger on his tongue but relief in his forest-soft eyes.

There is nothing but silence to greet him now, and Alfred drops his messenger bag with an audible thud.

There is one new message waiting for him on the phone screen.

 _I'm alright, al,_ it says, and that's how Alfred knows that Arthur is anything but.

.

.

Alfred gulps down the rest of the Coke within the hour between channel-surfing and playing with his iPhone. He has no shame in playing his 20's jazz playlist in the empty dorm room, fuck, he'd dance to it if he didn't feel like becoming one with the worn-out couch Arthur and he had smuggled in with the assistance of Kiku and Natalia.

Alfred's friends aren't Arthur's, but Arthur gets along with them surprisingly fine, even though Alfred can tell he's holding back in their interactions.

Alfred has had many memorable times with the couch, _on_ the couch: his first kiss at the age of eighteen ( _shut up, snarky remarks_ ), followed by a heavy make-out session two months later, and the nights spent on watching _Friends_ to recover from an unexpected and dull break-up that Alfred doesn't know if he's over yet.

If he's Joey — and Alfred finds himself liking Joey an awful lot on occasions, relating to the on-screen actor in ways that are unexpected and beyond the superficial — then Arthur must be Chandler, and Alfred wonders where that puts them. An actor that does not quite know _love_ but likes the chase anyway, and a joker that puts on a smile and throws self-depreciating jokes (or, in this case, angry retorts) around to hide himself from clear view. As far as he knows, Arthur doesn't have his Monica; Francis doesn't quite fit that role, might not be good for Arthur like Monica and Chandler are for each other.

It's easy to overanalyse relationships based on sitcoms, isn't it?

.

.

It's half past six in the evening when Arthur slips in like a whisper that is not meant to be heard. Alfred wakes up from his unintended nap on the couch — the fifth season of _Friends_ playing on Netflix still — and pulls himself up to look at Arthur, takes his time to scrutinize his almost-brother. He looks like shit, but at least he doesn't smell like he had been drinking himself silly the past days. Showers are truly magical things, Alfred muses, and sometimes they clear the mind as well as the body.

That is not the case here: Arthur's steps are like lost toddler's, wary and fearful as if expecting Francis to pop out from any opening.

"Artie?" Arthur nearly jumps out of his skin before he swivels like those swiveling chairs, thick brows furrowed and green eyes wide, though the surprise dies the moment his eyes land on Alfred.

"Alfred," he says, and sounds incredibly _posh._ Alfred winces; Arthur always retreats into his facade of properness when he wants to distance himself. Sometimes it's not facade, sometimes Arthur really is as gentlemanly as he claims, but right now Alfred can almost see Arthur withdrawing into himself and locking up the things that matter. Arthur blinks at him, an almost-smile touching his lips. "Have you already eaten?"

It's a question you wouldn't expect from a person whose eyes look like they have been forced to watch _50 Shades of Gray_ at family outing.

"Uh. Not yet," Alfred says, hesitates over his next words, "I was just gonna finish the leftovers from a pizza."

Arthur frowns at that, but it smooths out in the next moment as he simply gives a distracted nod. "Suit yourself. I'm going to sleep."

Without boiling any tea, Arthur leaves for his bed in the other room, shoulders sagging just before he disappears from Alfred's sight. Resignation, perhaps.

.

.

Next morning, Alfred wakes up to hushed sounds coming from the living room area that's separated from his and Arthur's bedroom by a door that's not nearly as sturdy as it should be to block noises. Sleepy as hell, Alfred doesn't recognize the voices at first; he curls into his blanket and tries to retreat into his dreamland again.

Then he hears the distinct crack of the slightest French accent, and he bolts, jumps, _flies_ up from his bed and promptly trips over his blanket and his face meets the floor ungracefully. Alfred freezes as the sounds quiet.

"You should go," Arthur's tense voice cuts the silence, and Alfred quietly crawls closer to the door to hear better. "Alfred's waking up, and I need to—"

"You are not making breakfast for him," Francis' voice replies with an obvious hint of disdain towards the concept of Arthur's cooking, "I cannot overlook such an obvious act of negligence on the poor boy's diet."

"Because that's what you're concerned of," Arthur snorts, the sound so weary that Alfred wonders if he actually slept at all. "Look, if you insist on it, I can leave you at it and go eat with Matthias or something—"

"You are avoiding me," Francis sighs. A quiet drama in a dorm room. "Arthur—"

"Yes, we have established that," Arthur says, irritation brewing in his voice. Alfred flinches at the underlying storm; Arthur has opted the anger route again. "I don't know what you want me to say, Francis. I can't accept it. Is that what you _really_ want to hear so early in the morning?"

"Who gets this upset by a confession of love?" Francis sounds irritated now. " _Mon Dieu_ , if I could take it back, I would; but I can't, and why should I apologize for telling the truth?"

"Because, you rotten piece of shitty French bread," Arthur snorts, and Alfred stifles an inappropriately timed giggle, "who the hell would love someone like me?"

.

.

Not too long after, a door is slammed shut with the anger of an agitated Englishman, but Alfred is too stunned on the floor of their bedroom to do anything about it. Same applies to Francis, he thinks, because in the next moment he hears soft French curses and an agitated groan.

.

.

When Arthur comes back — in the evening, long past six — his face is flushed from alcohol and eyes sparkling with tears, a mess that Alfred hasn't seen in a while himself. They're both beautifully ugly human wrecks in their own ways: Alfred with his Coke and fastfood, Arthur with his alcohol and other addictions he hides from the light of the day. This time Arthur isn't hiding it, and Alfred is mildly concerned as Arthur tumbles into his arms, face hot and wet and teeth grinding together like they're fighting.

"Artie? Artie." Alfred helps Arthur to the couch, makes him lie down before snatching away the bottle of alcohol from Arthur's fingers. Arthur grunts, breath hitching and then coming out as a strangled gasp. "Breathe, dude."

Alfred is bad at taking care of people when it comes to normal daily activities (waking up, eating, _showering_ ), but he knows how to do this, how to make Arthur calm down. He stays beside the couch, keeping hands to himself as he repeats, "Breathe, Artie."

Arthur's eyes open and close, the rhythm of actions messed up and unsteady, but there's vague clarity flitting over the green irises that puts Alfred at ease. But one question remains that he needs an answer to.

"Why did you lie to Francis?"

.

.

Alfred repeats the question when Arthur is sober and awake, though he knows an honest answer is difficult to pry from Arthur. However, hangovers tended to increase Arthur's impatience for alone time and, well, his honestly rose accordingly.

"Lied?" Arthur snorts. "You don't think that I think myself as unworthy?"

"I'm thinking you're using your bad self-esteem as an excuse," Alfred shrugs. "You wouldn't admit to thinking so little of yourself if that's all there was."

"If that's what you think," Arthur says flatly as he prepares a sandwich for himself, clumsily spreading chocolate spread, "then Francis should have reached the same conclusion, no? He knows me about as well as you do, if not better."

Alfred shrugs and pours himself some Coke. Maybe he should switch to Pepsi soon. "Love is blind, ya know? Francis was pretty upset when you took off."

"Of course," Arthur mutters, "It's not often he fails to sweep someone off their feet."

"Artie."

Arthur sighs, knife slipping from his fingers. "What's the point, Alfred? Good things always hurt, even more than the bad ones."

"That's… a paradox, isn't it?"

"Oh, look at you," Arthur sneers. "You learned a new word."

And that's it, right then. Arthur is closing off again, words bitten back by sharp teeth and well-honed self-control.

.

.

Alfred eats pizza by himself again that night.

.

.

Arthur goes to his classes the following day. It's progress, and Alfred is mildly relieved, because he honestly couldn't have taken Arthur's rebellious meltdown much longer. Arthur is back to his stuffy vests ( _waistcoats,_ Arthur insists irritably) and long-sleeved sweaters and all in all he's the same dork he's always been, just with a bit more baggage on his shoulders. Alfred pretends to not notice the much tenser faces Arthur makes whenever they come across each other in campus.

He pretends to not see the way Francis flinches at every mention of Arthur that Alfred makes at the cafe — because he likes to talk and complain about Artie, even when everyone just wishes he'd just dump Arthur's tea and let _it fucking go_ with that — but he's not as heartless as his youthful carelessness would indicate.

"Look," Alfred eventually drawls to Francis, "either you give up or you keep on trying, Fran." Nicknames are cool, okay? "It's not like Artie's entirely made of ice. He'll crack eventually."

"I don't want him to _crack_ ," Francis rolls his eyes. "Don't be stupid, Alfred. I want—" He quiets down, and runs a hand through his luscious hair, sighs again. "I want him to come to terms with it _himself_ ; as stubborn as he is, surely he realizes that pushing away the people that care for him, and whom he cares for in return, is not healthy for anyone."

"Dude, we're talking about Arthur," Alfred says, downing another plastic cup of coffee. The caffeine does its job, and makes his nerves tingle with energy.

"I know," Francis says dryly. "That's why I'm lamenting the loss of the potential love of my life."

"That's incredibly… sad."

"I'm twenty-six, Alfred. Certainly not too early for this talk."

"It's still kinda weird, man."

Francis pulls back his hair and ties it up, shoulders shuddering with his sigh, and Alfred muses that with downcurled lips and knitted brows, Francis looks much older than his physical age.

"Yes," he agrees, "it is."

.

.

Alfred starts to run off to Natalia's dorm room more often as the tensions between Arthur and Francis remain stagnant, dark clouds around but not yet thundering. It is not his business, he tells himself; he's not his (not quite) brother's guardian.

Natalia welcomes him in a silent and cold manner, but she's never impolite or rude to him at anything but her gazes. Alfred figures it's because she doesn't know how to bring heat to the cold violet of her eyes. That's fine.

He thinks he could get used to her hand ruffling his hair — she does it once or twice, an unnatural show of affection that makes her lips curl into a sneer from a past memory that she does not give an account of.

"My big sister used to ruffle brother's hair like this," she offers as a short explanation to his baffled expression. "Something about comfort. It has never helped me, but it helped Ivan quite often."

Yes, Natalia is not one for soft comforts, Alfred has come to realize; she's a little too hollow to feel the warmth of another.

Alfred can't stop himself from wrapping an arm around her waist and his cheek to hers; the selfie he takes of them looks ridiculous with their contrasting expressions and colors of clothes — _warm brown and cold midnight blue don't fit together all that well_ , Feliks comments on the photo on Facebook.

.

.

Natalia has a boyfriend. Or two, if Alfred has got it right.

"Open relationship," Natalia elaborates and rolls her eyes at his flabbergasted face. "Feliks and I fool around, Feliks and Toris are together-together, and Toris and I fool around occasionally."

It sounds complicated.

"It's not," Natalia tilts her head forward, a dangerously fake smile playing on her lips as her hair cascades down from her shoulders. "Whatever works can't be wrong, Alfred."

"I think someone once said that about communism," Alfred mutters. Natalia laughs.

.

.

It's not exactly a three-way relationship, Alfred thinks as he watches Natalia interact with the two of them at one party. It's one of those "we have survived the week, so let's go crazy with cheap vodka and throw up in our beds" sort of parties. Alfred's favorite kind. Natalia and Toris and Feliks are there, too, and Alfred can't get his eyes off of them as he tries to figure out how the hell their deal works when Francis can't make his thing with Arthur work through one month without one of them spontaneously setting fire to the rain of their… thing.

Arthur has been listening to a lot of Adele recently. Shut up.

Alfred feels like a voyeur when he watches Natalia's lips tilt into an awkward smile as Feliks tuts at her, admonishing her wardrobe if Alfred has to hazard a guess. Toris holds her hand, a soft smile on his lips that makes Alfred think about Francis and—

 _Ah, man. Why now._

(Is that not how a good relationship is?)

Alfred looks away just as Natalia looks his way, and he doesn't notice the way her eyes crinkle in genuine amusement.

.

.

Alfred stumbles into his dorm room a little past four am, hiccuping and staggering and wondering what the hell stinks so much. (Answer: drying up vomit on the hem of his shirt.)

He blinks when he realizes the lights are still on, blinks again when he realizes the room smells absolutely… _French_.

"Artie, did ya burn French toast again?" he hollers, nearly tripping over a displaced coat and a foreign pair of shoes. He giggles to himself as if the thought of Arthur's cooking is funny instead of the real-life horror movie that it in actuality is. "I'm not playing for a new oven!"

Alfred hears a chorus of groans, two different accents mumbling something like curses, and then Arthur stomps over to him, dress shirt wrinkles and that horrible waistcoat from earlier _gone_ , and— There's a hickey on his neck, Alfred notices because surely that's an important thing. He can't recall why it would be important, but… "You go, Artie! End the celibacy!"

Arthur has one of his _ready to strangle you in the next five seconds_ faces on, and it makes Alfred run out of breath as he laughs harder. The laughter cracks as he gags once, twice, and then Arthur's already rushing him to the small bathroom while calling him names but sounding almost incomprehensibly _happy—_

Alfred manages to not choke and, most importantly, not vomit through his nose. Now, that'd have been disgusting.

"There there," Arthur mutters as he rubs his back, and Alfred smiles through the dizziness in his head when he hears a low, French-accented murmur of 'how is he, dear' and Arthur's 'sod off with your endearments, frog'.

.

.

He'll never say it, but it's like having divorced parents find themselves again.


End file.
